


Secrets Spilled

by GammaOverdose



Series: All There Is To It [2]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Incredible Hulk (Comics)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Brian Banner's A+ Parenting, Bruce Banner-centric, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 05:58:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19101109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GammaOverdose/pseuds/GammaOverdose
Summary: (Pre-incident)Betty comes home, and Bruce isn't himself.





	Secrets Spilled

**Author's Note:**

> I've had parts of this sitting in my drafts for a long time, and decided to finish it up.

She finds him in the shower the first time it happens. 

 

It's a week before finals, and she'd spent all night in the lab. Bruce wasn't there; he'd called in sick, and Bruce  _ never  _ called in sick, but she'd decided to take it as proof the guy was actually human. 

 

The apartment is silent as she unpacks. He's not on the couch, or the bedroom. 

 

“Hey, nerd, I brought you soup.” 

 

No response. 

 

She almost drops the bowl on the floor when she sees him.

 

The water isn't running. He's fully clothed, back pressed into a corner, his knees drawn tightly to his chest and his hands buried in his hair. When she gets closer, she realizes he's shaking. 

 

“Bruce?” She asks, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the doorframe, brows furrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”

 

There's no response. A panic attack, an overdose, a seizure? What  _ happened _ while she was gone? “Hey, can you talk?” 

 

When she takes another step forward, he shrinks in on himself, shielding his face with his arms in a flash, like a reflex. She backs up, raising her hands in slight surrender.

 

“Bruce…” She pauses. “Do we need to go to the hospital?” 

 

_ “No!” _ His voice is shrill, and he jerks, eyes wide as saucers. “No, no, no! No hospital!” 

 

“Okay, okay! No hospital.” 

 

His breathing is rapid, labored now. She crouches down, slowly, to his level, still keeping her distance. Okay. She's an army brat; she's seen PTSD before. This is… something like that. Something happened while she was gone.

 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” 

 

He shakes his head vigorously, panicked, like he'll get in trouble if he says yes. 

 

“How about a blanket? Is that okay?”

 

“O-okay.” 

 

“Alright, you stay put. I'll be right back.” 

 

She finds the heavy plush throw wadded on the corner of their bed. He's still there when she comes back with it, watching her warily through the gap in his fingers. She sits down, cross-legged in front of the shower, and pushes it toward him - and he snatches it up like it's a lifeline, wrapping it over his head like a hood, like a hiding space. 

 

“Thank you. Thank you,” he says, and it sounds more like an apology. His eyes are glistening with tears, and it's weird, because she's never seen Bruce cry like this.

 

“Let's get you somewhere more comfortable, okay?” 

 

“Couch?” 

 

“Sure, couch.” 

 

He stands up, and he's clumsy on his feet, rotating his hand in front of his face like it belongs to an alien. “They're long,” he notes, under his breath, like she's not supposed to hear. 

 

He nearly trips when he steps out of the shower, holding onto the wall for dear life. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry!”

 

“It's okay! Just, here, lean on my shoulder. Are you sure you're okay?”

 

He nods vigorously, but accepts the help anyways. They make it into the living room, and he plops down on the couch, bringing his knees to his chest. Betty flicks the light on in the kitchen. Bruce flinches, but relaxes again when he realizes it's safe.

 

“I'm going to get us some water. Need anything else?” 

 

He thinks for a minute, pondering over a half-empty notebook before ripping some of the pages out. “Snack. Cookies.”

 

Okay. Normal Bruce's eating habits are usually a bit healthier than that, but he's obviously upset. She grabs a box of Oreos from the pantry and sets it on the coffee table with the waters. 

 

Bruce has started folding the paper into an airplane, which is good, because it means his hands have finally stopped shaking enough to do it. He jumps when he realizes Betty's sitting next to him, but then his eyes latch onto the box of cookies, and he snatches it up, ravenously eating as if he hasn't seen food in years. He stares at her, wary, as crumbs tumble from his mouth, and she stares back, her jaw agape. 

 

Okay. Well. Maybe it's a manic episode. Bruce has had them before, and she's certainly no stranger to them herself. It's kind of hilarious, actually. It's the middle of the night and she's wordlessly watching her boyfriend shovel Oreos into his mouth, surrounded by papers. Like a sitcom episode featuring two college students who've finally snapped under the pressures of finals week.

 

And then she snaps back to it, and she's still worried. 

 

“Drink some water, Bruce. That's gotta be dehydrating.” 

 

He blinks, like he's processing what she said for a moment, before nodding vigorously and taking a sip. It dribbles down his chin a bit, and he reflexively goes to wipe it up with the blanket. She's  _ never  _ seen him act this sloppy. 

 

“Thank you. Thank you.” He says, nodding again, eyes still shiny with tears. He turns back to start on another airplane, this time folding it lengthwise. She follows suit, brushing some crumbs off the table. 

 

It's quiet for a few minutes; they're just folding airplanes. When Bruce finishes, he'll watch it glide, taking some kind of mental note of the patterns as he sips from the glass. It's kind of nice. 

 

The rumbling of a truck driving by the apartment makes him flinch again, and his hands start to falter. “Can't  _ do _ it,” he exclaims after a few botched folds, crumpling the plane in his hand and tossing it into the sink. “Can't do it! Always mess up!” 

 

He grabs a few more sheets of paper, this time ripping them to pieces in short little jerks, letting out something like a sob. “Bad. I'm always so- so  _ bad _ .” 

 

“What?”

 

He doesn't respond, just continues ripping paper, at the empty box of cookies, and his face screws up. “Selfish  _ pig!  _ Selfish fucking  _ pig! _ What a  _ waste! _ ”

 

He brings a fist down on his leg, and then again, and tries a third time before Betty can stop him, holding his wrist in his hand. “Woah, woah, woah! Bruce, don't-” 

 

He shrinks away, curling in, protecting his vitals. “I-I'm sorry. Please don't hurt me. I'm sorry. Be good. I'll be good.” 

 

Oh. 

 

_ Oh. _

 

He's never been open about his past, but she feels like she just got a window into it.

 

“I'm not going to hurt you. I'd never hurt you,” she says, lowering her voice and relaxing her grip. “Just don't hurt yourself. Please.” 

 

“Sorry. I'm sorry.” 

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Look, I don't know what's going on, but I think we should go to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

 

“But- but- mess- I can clean it up, I-” 

 

“It's no big deal, alright? That's a problem for Tomorrow Us. We both need some sleep.” 

 

“Don't deserve- don't deserve sleep,” he hisses, but he lets Betty help him up off the couch anyways. 

 

“I'm going to  _ kill _ whoever taught you that.” 

 

He inhales sharply, sobbing again. They make their way onto the bed, and Bruce pulls the duvet over his head, pressing his face into her shoulder. She wraps her arms around him, holding him close, like she'll protect this man from the world if it's the last thing she does. She runs a hand through his hair. It always seems to calm him down.

 

“You're so nice,” he mumbles, slowly relaxing. “I- I'm sorry.” 

 

He's quiet past that, save for the sounds of little sobs that slowly subside as he falls asleep. She's awake for an hour after that, motionless, the anxiety clawing at the back of her mind until finally, she drifts off too.

 

\-- 

 

In the morning, Bruce is silent. 

 

“Hey,” she says, brushing a soft curl out of his face. He nestles into the crook of her arm, letting out a noise somewhere between a groan and a wheeze. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, the sleepiness heavy in his voice. “What happened last night? I thought I fell asleep at the lab.”

 

“You don't remember?” It sounds like a stupid question the moment it leaves her lips, but he tenses in her arms, eyes widening in terror. For a split second, he looks a lot like the boy he'd been last night.

 

“No,” he whispers, to himself more than anything. “Damnit,  _ damnit _ . Stupid, Bruce.” His hands twist into his hair, and he grits his teeth, and Betty's not really sure what to do, so she just… 

 

“Hey, uh. It's okay. We had a good time.” 

 

“ _ What? _ ” 

 

“You were crying so I gave you a blanket and we made paper airplanes. You ate an entire sleeve of Oreos in like a minute. It was kind of funny.”

 

She leaves out the end. He's already overwhelmed. Still, his breath hitches, and he shrinks away. “None of that sounds funny. I- what if I'd  _ hurt _ you? This isn't funny.”

 

“I don't think you could hurt me no matter  _ what _ state you're in. Besides, you could barely understand how your own legs worked.” 

 

“I- How are you so  _ casual _ about this? I- I think I'm freaking out.” 

 

She shrugs. “I've seen worse. Look at it as payback for all the breakdowns you helped me through.”

 

“I don't even remember what you helped with.”

 

“Do you want the full story?”

 

“No. No. Not right now. Let's pretend nothing happened.”

 

She doesn't press him any further, just assumes he'll tell her if he wants to.

 

\--  

 

He does, over a bowl of instant oatmeal a few hours later. “Normally those, episodes, happen in private, you weren't supposed to know. Usually I can remember bits and pieces, but -” 

 

His gaze shifts to the crumpled paper airplanes on the coffee table. “No, wait, I definitely remember those.” 

 

“But nothing else?” 

 

“No. Well, maybe I don't  _ want  _ to remember. I- I don't know, Betty, I'm fucked up and you shouldn't have to deal with-” His hand moves to his hair again. “I should, I should move out-”

 

“Hey, cut it out, I want you in my life. Bruce, that was…  _ weird _ , not gonna lie, and I'm worried, but it doesn't change my opinion of you.” 

 

He stirs the oatmeal for about the fifteenth time today. “It should've been kept secret.”

 

“You put a lot of trust in me, in that state, you know. It was brave of you. Just makes me love you even more.” 

 

He swallows heavily, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “Thank you. I'm sorry. Does anyone else know?”

 

“Just me, myself, and I.”

 

\-- 

 

It happens a few times more, and a few years into their relationship, it's become almost routine. Her name's Betty Ross, she's a microbiology TA, and sometimes her boyfriend turns into a sad, panicky kid when he's triggered. 

 

She never quite gets the full story, until one day he has a sudden moment of lucidity after an episode, and tells her, frankly, “My dad killed my mom when I was eight. I never really remembered my childhood until I saw the court documents a few years ago, and then it all came flooding back.” 

 

He pauses, brow furrowing as he tries to collect his thoughts. The silence goes on for too long, and she squeezes his hands, bringing him back into focus. He chews at his bottom lip. “There was… a lot of abuse. I'm fucked up in the head now. Loud noises, alcohol, even a wrong look, sometimes… all set it off. It's like walking on a minefield.” 

 

He slumps into the crook of her neck, exhausted from the aftereffects. “Thank you for being so patient with me, Betty.” 

 

She hums a response, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tight. She doesn't know what to say. She doubts there's anything she  _ could  _ say to make this any better. 

 

But she's here for him; he puts up with her shit, and she puts up with his. It's an unspoken agreement; they're two fucked-up people who love each other.

 

\-- 

 

When the bomb goes off, and she sees the recordings, there's a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, a knowledge she can't seem to shake. She'd recognize that wild expression anywhere. 

 

She tells her dad she's never seen anything like it, and goes home, and takes it out on the punching bag until her knuckles bleed. 

 

\-- 

 

The kid Bruce saved shows up on her doorstep three weeks later, a hastily-drawn map clenched in his hand and bags under his eyes. 

 

“Name's Rick Jones,” he says, extending an over-enthusiastic hand. 

 

She cocks her head, keeping her hands on her hips. Rick Jones. It sounds familiar, like something she read offhand in one of the news articles she'd been pouring over. “It's late.”

 

“I, uh- The Doc tried to kill himself,” he explains, wincing, like he'd just spilled a secret he wasn't supposed to share. Her heart sinks, but some part of her isn't surprised. “I- I need your help. I know you're his girlfriend, or whatever.” He glances over his shoulder. “Just- just come with me.” 

 

And she does.

**Author's Note:**

> I really love the concept of Betty knowing about the Hulk (in some way) before Shit Goes Down. Though I'm not sure if the first one she meets is necessarily Hulk or just a different kid alter. I kind of like Hulk mostly being a scared kid until he develops into more of a protector as he gets his body and a better sense of self. 
> 
> God, Bruce's condition sucks and it makes me so sad. I always see him as this reserved person who wants nothing more than to appear "normal", and then the gamma hits him and his psyche is laid bare for the world to see.


End file.
